


how I fucked the face right offa my car

by nihilBliss



Category: Original Work
Genre: Driving, Gen, Gun Violence, Monsters, References to Drugs, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28847055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nihilBliss/pseuds/nihilBliss
Summary: Some high-caliber nonsense.
Kudos: 1





	how I fucked the face right offa my car

Alright, stranger, you want to hear my story? Fine.

First things first, you’ve got to know my history with this automobile. I bought it with cash I’d saved up from lying, cheating, and stealing — mostly Magic: the Gathering cards, all from these fucking trust fund brats too goddamn stupid to know a counterfeit when they saw it. Works for the tourneys they bragged about winning but anyone worth half a shit would see “Hey! This is a fuckin’ fake!” and they’d be kicked out of the scene and humiliated. Meanwhile, I’m walking off with vintage playing cards older than my pubes and flipping ‘em for $150, $200 a pop all across Cook County. Good times, but you can’t burn too many losers without ‘em putting two and two together, which is why I can’t go back to Chi-town.

Anyway, the car came from these Christian types who lived off of Iowa corn and piety. I wasn’t surprised they had an old Impreza sitting around in the barn, but I was mighty impressed at how tricked out the body was, though I chalked that up to some post-teen fratboy son at state college blowing his student loans on making a Fuckmachine before the DUI says WELL HELLO!!! They REALLY didn’t seem like the types to be housing the car of the former meth kingpin of Adams County and all southwestern Iowa. But fate is funny like that, and not two hours south of their middle-of-nowhere digs, I had MGK wannabes on my ass pissing 9mm rounds like it was going out of style. The methanol in their moonshine had long since fucked their aim all to hell, but the eight-cylinder engines in their trucks kept ‘em right on my ass. I was down a rear windshield by the time I hit St. Joe — the Impreza was fuckin’ BORN for tight corners, and I lost ‘em quick.

Once the coast was clear and the cops were busy with a real pack of dumbass, I doubled back north before heading out east. The glove box had an address in Pennsylvania and “You fuckin’ owe me, Satch.” Twelve hours and $30 in trucker speed later, Satch — an overweight butcher with a bad leg and crossed eyes — swapped out the glass and the plates for fresh ones in exchange for five minutes alone with the car. I dunno what was hidden in her, but he was clutching a rusty steel briefcase that smelled like sulfur and honeysuckle when he told me she was ready for the road. Well, I wasn’t interested in being around whatever tomfuckery this car’s past owner and his sketchy-ass Appalachian wizard buddies had in mind, so I took the last of the ephedrine on hand and gunned it for Salem, where a witch I’d once and still loved would let me stay and be her familiar for a while. 

Somewhere around the time I crossed out of New York, the pills wore off, and I was fighting to stay awake. I stopped for coffee in some fuckin’ podunk on the edge of a state forest, but I didn’t like the looks I was getting, so I didn’t give it time to kick in. Once I hit the forest, I put the pedal down to keep my blood pumping. It shoulda been a simple thing, a rally circuit through a forest I didn’t know while half-conscious and scared out of my wits. But something was in the woods that night, something big and mean and stinking of wet dog and rotten lobster. And I dunno what it was, but it stopped the Impreza like a brick wall, and it hardly seemed to notice. It must have taken my front bumper at some point, because when I rolled into a shop in Middlesex County, somewhere outside of Boston, the mechanic looked at me like I was a damn ghost. ‘Course, I know a bite mark when I see it, and I’d swear that’s what was all over the hood, so as long as there wasn't money on the line.

Anyway, that’s why I’m here, sitting in a bar in Massachusetts scraping for cash to get her back on the road. Thanks for the $20. I'll get you back once this all blows over.  



End file.
